


Pillow Talk (with actual pillows)

by LunaDeSangre



Series: Infinite Possibilities [5]
Category: Oz (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, Oz Magi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-08
Updated: 2016-03-08
Packaged: 2018-05-25 10:46:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6192022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LunaDeSangre/pseuds/LunaDeSangre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“How,” asks Miguel in a breathless, husky whisper against Ryan’s mouth, “did we get here again?”</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pillow Talk (with actual pillows)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mswriter07](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mswriter07/gifts).



> Wish #14, Request 1 of the 2015 Oz Magi  
> Pairing/Character(s): Miguel/Ryan  
> Keyword/Prompt Phrase: How they got together.  
> Canon/AU/Either: AU  
> Special Requests: No Major Character Death or non-con/rape  
> Story/Art/Either: Story
> 
> A major thank you to Trillingstar, without whom Ryan and Miguel would have been shooting actual shit.

“How,” asks Miguel in a breathless, husky whisper against Ryan’s mouth, “did we get here again?”

He’s barely slowed his pounding in Ryan’s ass to start to ask the question, and though he’s now holding mostly still, with that infuriatingly sexy little smirk on his face, he’s also _grinding_ against Ryan’s prostate. So Ryan being a bit slow to catch on that Miguel’s apparently expecting an answer? That’s very, very normal, unlike Miguel actually _wanting to talk_ while they’re currently busy with far more important things.

“Baby?” Miguel asks in that almost sing-song way he has of saying the word, warm and playful and _infuriating_ , when Ryan has failed to procure any sounds remotely resembling words after what seems like an eternity, brain a bit too fried by Miguel’s cock continually pushing against his prostate, thank you very much.

In the position they’re in – Miguel’s hands pinning his on either side of his head against the mattress, fingers tangled but with Miguel’s full upper body weight on them, Ryan’s legs folded on Miguel’s arms, his hips still raised from when Miguel pulled them down to rest on his thighs, after what felt like _ages_ of teasing prep with both Miguel’s fingers and Miguel’s tongue, and promptly used the leverage to shove his cock balls-deep in Ryan’s ass in one thrust moving Ryan’s whole body and making him completely loose his breath – well, Ryan can’t move much. If at all. What he _can_ do however, is clench tight around Miguel’s cock with all his frustrated impatience, and hope Miguel’ll shut the hell up.

He gets a deep, deep groan and a rough, uncontrolled thrust, and can’t help smirking a bit even as his back arches in reflex. “Through the door,” he manages to gasp out, as Miguel drops to his elbows, face to Ryan’s neck, eyes squeezed closed and forehead creased, gasping and panting against his skin, visibly trying to hold on and not just explode inside Ryan right this fucking instant.

“ _¿…qué?_ ” Miguel asks, gravelly and strained, obviously gone a bit braindead himself, and Ryan laughs a little, as much as he can, breathless and hungry and _electrified_ , feeling Miguel’s entire body shudder in response.

“Smartass,” Miguel rumbles seductively when he can speak again, gently chewing on Ryan’s ear and rolling his hips in a way that has Ryan arch, close his eyes and fucking _whimper_. He’s so, so close, so ready to come, balls drawn tight, cock leaking against his own stomach, untouched and yet nearly there thanks to all of Miguel’s teasing.

“Oh fuck please,” he babbles uncontrollably, “pleaseMiguelplease–”

“Shhh,” Miguel tells him, not sounding all that steady himself, and he’s suddenly _devouring_ Ryan’s mouth, all hot and messy, and slamming his cock down all the way back inside Ryan with voracious intensity, control obviously obliterated. And Ryan, well, Ryan breaks the kiss with a strangled rather high-pitched sound in his throat and just explodes so intensely he almost whites out for a minute – only vaguely aware of Miguel letting go of his hands to sit back up on his haunches and shove Ryan’s legs over his shoulders, clutching his wrists to roughly pull Ryan’s whole body on his cock a few times, like a fucking ragdoll, as Ryan convulses still, and then there’s warm wetness in his ass and Miguel’s slumping on Ryan’s side with a long, guttural groan.

When Ryan feels like maybe he can think again, he realizes Miguel’s cock is still half-inside him, Ryan’s legs are tangled around Miguel in a way that makes him truly grateful of the fact that he’s actually rather flexible, and they’re both panting for air. Miguel’s nearly unconscious, body loose and pliable as Ryan rolls him to lay on his side, untangling their limbs and scooting up a little on the bed to let Miguel’s cock slip out of him – with only a slight wince despite the fact that his ass is _burning_ , dear god, why does he have to be such a masochist? He’s going to feel Miguel’s cock in him still every time he moves for the next few days, and he really should be disturbed, but it just makes him feel hot, and that’s fucking _insane_ , but it’s so, so good –, then tugging Miguel up to the pillows and back into Ryan’s arms, unheeding the stickiness on his own stomach that ends up smeared on Miguel’s skin as Ryan rearrange him. Dark eyes watch him from half-closed lids, sleepy, warm and satisfied, and he can’t help laying a kiss on those soft, full lips, feeling them curl up in a smile under his.

“How’re you feeling, baby?” Miguel asks against his lips, voice hoarser than normal and way too fucking sexy. One of his hands creep from Ryan’s shoulder to his ass, fingers gently probing and caressing his hole, and Ryan knows him well enough to understand the seemingly erotic gesture is actually physical concern, just like he knows the question is more about Ryan’s state of mind than Miguel’s performance. Knowing doesn’t stop him from shuddering in reflexive arousal though, even while feeling so drained.

“Like I’ve been repeatedly hammered,” he answers, tired laughter creeping in his voice. “You?”

“Like I’ve been doing a lot of hammering,” Miguel deadpans, face almost perfectly straight, only smiling with his eyes. Ryan snickers, and he cracks up too.

“Seriously though,” Ryan asks when the fit has passed, “what was that?”

“Hmmm,” Miguel rumbles against Ryan’s neck, sounding thoroughly distracted by his own fingers now stroking Ryan’s stomach, rubbing Ryan’s own come into his skin. “In case your brain forgot to start again, it’s called fucking.”

And Ryan – despite being equally distracted by Miguel’s fingers and Miguel’s warm breath on his neck, and all that smooth, firm skin under his hands – doesn’t need to see his face to know he’s wearing that fucking cocky smirk that makes absolutely _everyone_ want to deck him, so he promptly pinches Miguel’s firm ass in retaliation – which makes Miguel jump with a very unmanly yelp, which of course makes Ryan laugh helplessly, not helped in the least by Miguel’s downright adorable pout as he glares at Ryan.

“I was just,” Miguel starts – _primly_ , and Ryan has to resist the urge to ruffle his hair as he tries to get his laughter under control –, then immediately stops, visibly trying to gather his thoughts. “D’you remember how the hell we got to this point? ‘Cause to me, it seems like one minute I was shooting the shit with you and the next I was plastered to a wall in a broom closet with your tongue down my throat.” His eyes have gone from narrowed in almost-annoyance to emphatically round by the end of his explanation, and yeah, he’s fucking adorable, and Ryan’s cheeks are starting to hurt a little from grinning so damn wide.

“I don’t remember hearing you complain,” is his, okay, very smartass-y answer.

“Bit difficult to complain with a guy’s tongue in your mouth,” Miguel shoots back, back to glaring but with a teasing little smirk that says yes, he’s definitely enjoying this too.

“Not my fault,” Ryan retorts, “ _you_ shoved me against a wall first. _And_ you were sucking on a lollipop. _Again_ ,” he adds darkly, scene flashing in his mind with deadly accuracy, down to the smallest not-so-little detail, like the way Miguel’s eyes had held that teasing sparkle as he sucked on the thing, even while Hernandez was threatening Ryan.

“I was _frisking you!_ ” Miguel answers indignantly, ignoring the lollipop comment. Which is probably fair: Ryan’s seen him suck on plenty of lollipops in those few months they were cellmates, before the riot, and he’d never jumped him then. Privately though, he’s sure daily exposure to Miguel’s oral fixation ended up playing a sizable part in the development of Ryan’s obsession with his slightly-insane latino: Miguel’s fucking gorgeous mouth _and_ Miguel’s stupidly hot body and his quirky mind and cocky sense of humor. 

And his loyalty.

Ryan had seen it, first thing, when he’d moved his shit in Miguel’s pod after Groves had been relocated to await his trial. He’d wondered how the hell he’d ended up being the one to replace the cannibal in the loco latino’s pod, and could only come to the conclusion that McManus had no idea what to do with the only Irish in Em City, since Ryan didn’t have any obvious friendships or attachments, gravitating between groups like a loose electron. Miguel was friendly enough, if a little insane, and Ryan was secretly glad sharing a cell with a latino would further distance him from the aryans, who were getting less than fucking subtle about checking him out silently, apparently lacking another fucking distraction – but not having yet reached the point where Ryan would have to do something about it –, so he’d gone along with it. One evening of idle talk and playing cards, waiting for lights out, and he’d known Miguel was genuinely different from all the others gangbangers, and that he could have a really fucking solid ally there, if he went about it carefully.

He had: he’d been friendly, funny and charming – but not too much –, distracted and listened, and he’d kept Miguel from drifting too much from reality. And Miguel had completely taken Ryan by surprise by ending up doing the same thing for him. He’d helped, tremendously, without seemingly trying, without Ryan having realized before that he _had_ needed help. It was a gradual thing, bit by bit, like taming an alley cat, and only realizing as you have that the cat had been taming you too. It hadn’t stopped when Miguel had ended up in charge of his gang, and they’d stuck as close as they could during the riot, the goddamn peacekeepers-slash-hostages-sitters – slash-food-rationer-slash-spokesperson in Ryan’s case – and kept each other safe, as well as, by extension, Miguel’s gang: Schillinger had taken a bullet through the eye – though it had sadly not killed him –, and Ross one through the brain, but the latinos had kept Ryan’s advice and Miguel’s order to keep their fucking heads down away from the gate, and had come out with only bruises and scratches.

As a result, until El Cid and his fucking problem with white guys and those that kept their company – especially if they weren’t that tanned themselves to begin with, like Miguel, and were respected leaders _and_ good-looking, again, like Miguel –, El Norte had been seeing Miguel’s continuing connection to Ryan as a good thing. They hadn’t been cellmates again after the riot, stuck in solitary for ages until they were released back in Em City to fit with their respective little ethnic groups in McManus’ version of Equality, but as soon as they’d been able to, they’d picked up their friendship at the same point they’d been at – or maybe somewhere very near that had mutated a little, with months of loneliness in separated little cells, so close and yet unable to talk to each other. There had been gentle teasing and playful flirting, mostly involving Ryan’s overgrown hair and Miguel’s seemingly unbreakable habit of calling everyone _baby_ , and then playful teasing and downright gleeful flirting, when it became clear they both enjoyed the game.

Then Ryan had gotten cancer, and Miguel had stuck by him still, all the way through, had helped with every little thing, not let Ryan think the worse, had fucking let him cry in his arms once, and had made it clear afterwards that none of it fucking mattered, as far as Miguel’s opinion of Ryan was concerned. He’d been supportive and unexpectedly sweet; he had _cared_ – and Ryan, well, Ryan had fallen in love. He’d kept his mouth shut about it and hadn’t tried to start anything, and if it had bled through anyway – Ryan’s pretty sure it must have –, Miguel hadn’t treated him any different because of it. They’d been building something; they’d carried on with that.

Then El Cid had shown up, and nearly driven a stick straight through everything. That scumfuck had wanted Miguel to suffer, for no fucking reason other than bigotry and jealousy, had tried – and failed, though the stupid fuck probably never realized it – to drive Ryan against him, had sent him to take a hack’s eyes out and either be beaten to death by the other hacks, or rot in solitary like Miguel’s abuelo. He’d wanted Miguel buried in the most painful way possible. Well. He was the one buried now, not Miguel; he was the one that had ended up beaten to death by the hacks for sending the now-late-as-well Guerra after one of their own, after Miguel had mysteriously ended up in the hole for a borrowed scalpel the very same day he’d received his orders. Tough luck, really. Good thing Miguel was there to pick the gang back up afterwards.

“You were _not_ frisking me,” Ryan returns incredulously, “you were _fondling_ me. In front of your amigos. In front of _Hernandez_. I don’t know what you’ve been taught, gatito, but when you frisk someone, you’re supposed to pat them down, not fucking _caress_ them. ‘Cause that’s foreplay, not frisking.”

Miguel makes a sound that’s half an embarrassed groan, half choked laughter, curling up a little so his forehead is against Ryan’s neck. He’s stopped rubbing Ryan’s stomach, hand now clutching slightly at his hip, the other trapped between their chests, their legs tangling a bit again.

Ryan can’t help stroking his hair this time, his neck, behind his ear, like Miguel really is a cat. He also can’t stop grinning. “You nearly gave me a hard-on for everyone to see. I had to think of Hernandez naked” – Miguel makes a disgusted sound – “doing the hula” – helpless disgusted snickers against his skin – “to be able to turn back around. _Of course_ I had to drag you into a broom closet afterwards. And like I said, you really weren’t complaining. In fact, you were pretty enthusiastic. Guess you liked fondling my legs.”

“I really was just trying to frisk you,” Miguel grumbles against his neck.

Ryan snickers again. “I know. That’s what makes it so funny.”

“Fuck you,” Miguel laughs.

“Cute,” Ryan answers, “but you did that already.”

“Awww,” is the immediate whine, “does that mean I can’t do it again?”

Ryan raises his eyebrows, more amused than offended. “Can you get it up again and be finished in the next two minutes? Because we need to get back. As much as I’d love to stay and fuck all day in this…” – untamable smirk creeping up – “adorable little nest, someone’s bound to notice we’ve both vanished for almost an hour.”

“ _…adorable little nest?!_ ” Miguel asks, part incredulous and part laughter, with a dash of indignation mixed in.

“What else do you call this?” Ryan asks, gesturing to where they’re lying in a small disused infirmary room.

“A makeshift bed,” answers Miguel, eyes narrowing.

“Okay,” Ryan agrees, grinning at the five pillows and the pile of three mattresses that Miguel must have smuggled from somewhere, then at the mental image of Miguel trying to look inconspicuous doing just that.

“You said you wanted a bed,” Miguel insists, and he’s pouting a bit now, and Ryan _has_ to ruffle his hair, which makes Miguel whine indignantly and laugh at the same time.

“I did,” Ryan graciously concedes, actually touched under the smirkish smile. “Is it my Christmas present?”

“And you’d better like it, baby,” Miguel says darkly, “dragging all that shit here wasn’t easy.”

“I do like it,” Ryan answers, valiantly not cracking up or questioning the necessity of _three_ mattresses and _so many pillows_ , “it’s _very_ comfy. Sheer luxury.” And he grabs Miguel and bounces them both a little on the so-called bed for emphasis.

Miguel laughs. “Only the best for you, baby,” he adds with an exaggerated wink, and he cracks up again when Ryan finally takes advantage of the fact that they have pillows and bashes him with one. “Here,” he continues, fighting Ryan off and digging under another pillow, “I even have those things to clean up! Ganked them with the lube.” He waves some packaged wipes things that Ryan is pretty sure are meant to be antiseptic under Ryan’s nose, and Ryan laughs disbelievingly.

“You’re _insane_ ,” he declares.

“Insane _for you_ , baby,” Miguel retorts, with the cheesiest grin in the universe and an eyebrows waggle.

Ryan groans, and opts to kiss him to shut him up instead of smothering him with a pillow – and he somehow ends up sliding on top of him, legs tangled, fingers in Miguel’s hair and Miguel’s arms around him, stroking his skin, kisses smoothly moving to warm and wet and deep, all languidly awakening hunger. He has to pull away gasping for air a little, half-laughing himself, because really, his loco latino is fucking addictive.

“Come on,” he says, resting his upper-body weight on his elbows on either side of Miguel’s head, looking down at him, “we _need_ to move. I need to actually show up at confession, and _you_ need to get back to work before the doc comes looking for you herself.”

“Right,” Miguel answers huskily, “getting up.” And of course, he pulls Ryan down for another kiss instead.

**Author's Note:**

> And yep, it was way too subtle, but in this universe? Beecher never got to Oz. Everything else snowballed from that point.


End file.
